


You & Me Of The 10,000 Wars

by paperdragon



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Additional Characters, Denial is not just a river in egypt it is a goddamn ocean, F/M, Jack is in love, Minor Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers, Shippy, minor characters - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2016-05-18
Packaged: 2018-03-20 06:09:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3639693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperdragon/pseuds/paperdragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>after, after, after - he can't meet her eyes. or, <i> the reluctant journey from colleagues to friends to lovers as told by jack thompson & peggy carter.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. you & your pity (don't fit in my bed)

Jack gets promoted to chief, no less. Another pat on the back, another shiny medal on a wall he won’t want to look at.

After they move his things into the office, after he’s spent his first day in the chair, after time’s long over and he’s exhausted enough to know that he’ll pass out as soon as his head hits the pillow, after he’s thrown his coat over his arm and walked out and found Peggy Carter doing the same.

After, after, after – he can’t look her in the eyes.

He keeps his eyes trained on the file on her desk, picks apart the words in _JOHANNA MACKEAN,_ justsohe won’t have to look at her.

“I’d hoped to congratulate you but you seemed quite busy.” She says and what sort of makes him feel like garbage is the fact that she actually sounds _sincere._

His eyes flicker to her face and he stares at the bridge of her nose. It’s surprising how many people think you’re looking at them when you’re not. He’s not stupid enough to not know that if for some reason _he_ deserves this job, then she deserves it a thousand times more. She deserves all the firm handshakes and the medals and the pats on the back and the gleam of respect in people’s eyes. But along with that he’s also not stupid enough to not know that at the end of the day, no matter who’s better in every aspect - this is a man’s world. This is a man’s world and no one, _not one man_ is going to give up his fifteen minutes of fame and glory for a _woman._

And the difference between him and Sousa, he tells himself, is that Jack is enough of a man to admit it.

However, all this does not change the fact that she deserves it all and that whenever he thinks of her, he feels like shit. Which pretty much sucks, no matter how much he’s earned to feel like shit.

“Thanks, Carter.” He spits out. He realizes he hasn’t blinked ever since he’s been staring at her, there’s a steady burn at the back of his eyes.

“Daniel offered his congrats as well.” She says.

He can’t stop the scoff that manages to rip out of his throat. “Sousa, really?”

Peggy frowns. He wants to smooth out the lines on her forehead, wants to know how her skin would feel under the pads of his fingers. He swallows and shoves his hands into his pockets.

“Don’t seem so disbelieving. He was glad for you.” She says.

He scoffs again. Really, he needs to get a grip on his vocal cords. Immediately. “Along with some other things, I suppose.”

“Well.” She says, with a small shake of her head. The corner of her mouth curls up just a little.

He wants to frame her face between his hands and kiss her until her lipstick is all smudged, until she feels as breathless and wrecked as he does whenever he looks at her. And that’s when he realizes that he has to leave, immediately. Nothing good will come out of his infatuation with her.

She says, “You know, it’s still not too late. We could get a drink.”

And he says, “You know what, no thanks. I actually just want some sleep tonight, y’know. Get in early.”

And then he feels like shit even more when he sees the disappointment seep into her face. Just great. Maybe he should get a medal for that too.

It’s terribly awkward for a moment before she speaks.

“Good night, Jack.” She resumes wearing her coat.

He feels the fatigue drain into him again. “Night, Peggy.”

It’s not until he gets home and strips off his socks that he realizes he called her Peggy.

…

The next few days he goes out of his way to ignore her. It’s not that hard, since he doesn’t really need to do a lot. She doesn’t come into his office and he doesn’t leave it much and that’s that. He makes sure he leaves terribly late and she’s never there. The urge to look at her is still there, but it’s slowly becoming bearable. 

Agent Williams in his office today, with files and pictures of the newest problem Leviathan has thrown at them in the form of a very pretty brunette named Ava Jenkins. He lays down the plan on how to follow the lead. It all stinks with the fingerprints of one Peggy Carter. She’s the only one who’s good enough to get this much.

“How’d you get the name?” He asks, and Agent Williams ducks his head. It’s enough of an answer.

“A’right. Take Carter with you.” Jack adds and he can see Williams eye twitch. Jack tries on his Chief Dooley expression, the one that drips of _Is there a fucking problem,_ and Williams nods and leaves _very_ quickly. So it works, then. Good for him.

That night, when he’s decided that the office is finally stranded by the others and walks out, he completely regrets it. And there she is, Peggy Carter sitting at her desk. Looking at her reminds him of how much he’s missed her the past few days, how much he’s missed looking at her and listening to her. It also reminds him to shove his hands into his pockets and close his mouth before he does or says something exceptionally stupid, reminds him to get out and break open that big bottle of bourbon he’s got waiting for him at home.

“Are you going to look at me?” She asks him.

He rips his eyes away from the logo of the SSR on the wall behind her and instead looks at her. It hurts to look at her.

“What are you talking about?” He says. Tries to get going that whole brazen, harsh-american vibe everybody associates with him. Hopes she believes it. “I am looking at you.”

According to her face, she doesn’t believe it. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I’ve been busy, Carter. Haven’t always got time for people.” He says. “Being Chief isn’t just sitting in the chair, smoking and drinking. It’s work too.”

He knows it’ll piss her off, and he catches the brief glimmer of hurt fade away to anger.

“Jack, if you’ve got something to say, I’d rather you just come out and say it instead of going around and around _avoiding_ me- and don’t you dare deny it. That is exactly what you’ve been doing.” She says, her tone hot and burning.  “Can you for once act like a decent human being? Is it because you think I’m hurt by the fact that you were promoted to chief and the only thing I got was a few claps?  I’m not a little girl who is going to cry into her sleeves, Jack, I am a grown woman who is well versed with the reality of this world. I’m fine with it. I’m actually happy for you when you aren’t, well when you aren’t being like _this._ ”

He stares at her. There’s a lock of hair falling across her forehead and dangling just beside her nose, her breathing’s askew with what she’s just said and he’s overcome by the urge to kiss her until his lips are as red as hers. He forces himself to swallow and ignore it.

“And what is _this?_ ” he asks.

She huffs. She honest-to-God huffs and it is the most adorable thing he’s seen. He cringes inwardly. What the actual hell is happening to him?

“ _This_ is you acting like a total bloody _wanker_.” She says.

Jack laughs. He laughs because there’s nothing else he can do and because looking at her angry makes something inside him curl up, warm and possessive. He laughs because it’s the truth.

 He smiles at her, wide and warm and says, “Alright, I apologize. I’ll admit I may have been _this_ for the last few days.”

“Or as long as I’ve known you.” She says with a tilt of her head. The angers fading away and there’s a softness in her eyes he doesn’t know what to do with.

“Or as long as you’ve known me.” He agrees. The air takes on a more friendly vibe. He doesn’t want to know why.

She laughs a little then, and he’s wants to know what to do so he can hear that sound again. Jesus, what is happening to him.

“You know, I didn’t think you knew how to apologize. Or if you did, I thought of you as the person who doesn’t apologize.” She tells him.

Well, he’d be feeling pretty darn offended right about now if he hadn’t made sure he gave out the idea of  someone who didn’t apologize, if he hadn’t crafted his personality that way.

The thing is, he doesn’t want Peggy to think of him that way. Doesn’t want her to imagine him as one of the people who can’t see her worth, people who won’t respect her just because of her gender. Relationship hopes out of the way, he wants to be a friend, wants to be someone she can count on.

What is going on with him? No, really, what the actual fuck is going on with him?

And because he’s probably one of those masochists he’s heard about, he gives her his best smile and  he says, “Y’know, it’s still not too late. We could get a drink.”

And how much it hurts to look at her does not even come close to how pleased he feels when she smiles and says, “Well, alright.” 

The drive to the bar is uneventful, but once they’re there and they’ve both gotten some Dutch courage in their stomachs it’s much easier to get conversation going.

After a half hour of drinking and talking about family, he surprises her and himself by saying, “Dance with me, Carter.”

“No, no. I’m _really_ not a very good dancer.” She replies.

“Ummhmm, I don’t _really_ believe you.” He tells her. “I’ll have to see it to deem it right.”

Peggy gives him a look. He gives her a look _right_ back. They have a little staring contest right there, until Peggy huffs again, and says, “Oh, fine. But no complaints if I scuff up your boots.”

As she takes his hand and stands up, he says, “Oh, I wouldn’t be able to know if you did that on purpose or not.”

He’s greeted by her best glare. He just smiles in return. 

It’s a very nice song that’s playing, not too slow, not too sad.  There is not boot scuffing or stepping on the others shoes or counting under one’s breath. All in all, it’s like floating. Maybe it’s the amount of alcohol he’s consumed, maybe it’s the way they’re both relaxed and it’s late, but he feels like he’s glad to be back from. He’s glad he’s still alive, glad he didn’t die and now he can be here. It surprises him how much he wants this, how glad he is for having it.         

He blames it completely on the alcohol causing brain impairment when he decides to twirl her and then press his hand across the small of her back. What’s even more confusing is that she lets him. He isn’t under any qualms as to what Peggy can do if she really wanted to. She can throw him down or break his neck or do something equally terrifying if he did something she didn’t like.

So maybe he’s dreaming. Maybe this is all a stupid figment of his imagination and he’s still knocked out cold from when Peggy nailed him in the head. Maybe Dooley’s still alive.

But he can feel her - warm and smelling of lavender and he can see the perfect outline of her red lips and the way her hair bounce when he twirls her, so maybe this isn’t a dream.

But this isn’t something that happens all that usually, so Jack smiles, brilliant and sincere, the way he did before the war, the way everyone did before the war.

“Well, Marge, you were right when you said you weren’t a good dancer. You’re a great dancer.” He says, because that’s what alcohol does. It makes you say things you never should and makes you feel as if saying them isn’t a huge mistake.

Is that a red tinge on her cheeks? Does Peggy Carter even blush? He’s probably imagining it.

“Ha ha. And I really do hate that name.” She tells him, but her smile’s fixed to her face.

He winks at her. “Why do you think I do it?”

She huffs and her smiles goes down a notch. “Why do you do that?”

“Why do I do what?” He asks.

“That. Be all nice and then be an arsehole.” She asks.

Oh, well. Good to see someone other than him is noticing then.

“It’s in my nature, I guess.” He tells her. Hopes she’ll believe it.

Instead she rolls her eyes. “Well, you’ll tell me someday.”

“Confident, aren’t we, Carter?”

“Yes.”

“You really believe I’ll tell you? Not that there’s anything to tell, but.”

“Either you’ll tell me, or I’ll figure it out myself.” She says. Her grip on his shoulder tightens for a moment and then relaxes again. “Now, are you going to lead properly or do I need to do that too?”

There’s a smile teasing on the corners of her eyes and there’s a much livelier song on now and he’ll never have another night like this again, so he allows himself to smile back- allows himself to grip her waist tighter and fall into step. When he twirls her this time, he makes sure to pull her back faster, makes sure she feels as dizzy and exhilarated as he does looking at her. She laughs, tightens here grip on his hand to steady herself. He can feel the warmth of her hand seeping into his and he laughs with her and twirls her again.

He wants to write stories onto her skin with his lips. He wants to make a map by pressing kisses on her body and he wants to know how warm she’ll be when he touches the small of her back without clothing. He wants to see what she looks like in the mornings after she wakes up, wants to make her laugh and hold her hand.

And he can’t do any of that. But right now, this – this is enough, because for the first time in a very long time, he feels happy. So he’ll happily ignore all those things in the back of his head, because being her friend is better than being nothing.

And _se_ r _iously,_ what the hell is wrong with him right now?

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t want to know.

Instead he keeps dancing with her. It’s during a slow song that she suddenly jumps.

“It’s eleven thirty, God. I completely forgot the time.” She says, worry worn into her skin.

“Relax, Cinderella. You’ve got at least half an hour before you have to run.” He says, laughing.

She throws him a dirty look. “Angie will be worried sick.”

“Is she your roommate?” he asks.

“In a way. She’s my friend.” Peggy says. “Well, alright, I have to go. Good night, Jack.”

As she turns to go, he stops her. Can’t help himself it seems. “Wait, I’ll drop you off.”

“No, Jack, really- it’s fine. I can go alone, you should get home too-”

“And I will get home, as soon as I drop you.” He tells her. Doesn’t let her add anything else and she realizes it’s a losing fight and starts walking with him.

He lights a cigarette and sticks it between his teeth while he drives. He’s noticing things about Peggy now, like the fact that she taps her fingers together when she’s looking out the window. He’s painfully aware of her sitting by his side.  

“That’s a terrible habit.” She says.

“Hmm? Oh.” He says, quells the urge to stub the cigarette out. He may be drunk, but he’s not that drunk. “Well, every man has his vices.”

“Shame that this one might kill you then.” She tells him and he smiles.

“Y’know, I think I have a better chance of being shot to death, rather than dying of a few smokes’.” He tells her.

Now it’s her chance to smile. “I’ll remind you of this moment when you’re old and hacking your lungs out in the hospital.”

“Aw. You’d come visit me in the hospital when I’m sick and old? How charitable, Marge.”  

“Oh, no need for saying thank you. I’m just that kind of person.” She tells him, her smile getting wider.

He laughs, he can’t help it. She does too, bright and loud. He wants to kiss her _now_ so he can know what her smile feels like under his lips, so he can know what her laugh tastes like.

When they finally reach her place, he’s tired in the best way. Her smile makes it all worth it. He wonders what she’d if he pulled her back in and kissed her. He wonders if she’d let him. He wonders for a brief five seconds and then screams shut up in his head and smiles back. Hell, he even throws in a wave.

No one knows what tomorrow may bring.

“Thank you for the ride, Jack.” She says, sincerity in her smile. It always surprises him, the way he can see her emotions in her face if he tries hard enough. He’s never been able to do that, not since he came back home.

He smiles the way people want him to, the way they need him to. Modest one time and confident the next, ranging from _self-assured smile_ to _haughty smirk_ and all the way to _humble quirk of the lips._ But for her, he tries. Tries to smile back in a way that shows just a fraction of how he really feels.

Smiles and says, “You have a good night, Peg.”

“Good night, Jack.” She says. Her smile is an apple slice.“See you in the morning.”   

 

 


	2. don't you want somebody to love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The walls are white. The sheets are white. Even the furniture is all white. She blinks._
> 
> _When she tries to focus on Sousa’s face, her vision’s white. Everything is too white. It’s giving her a headache. Although, that’s probably because she had a bullet wound for brunch. Maybe she should sleep. It seems a very attractive option right about now._

“No.”

“Jack, you haven’t even finished listening-”

“I’ve heard all I need to know. The answer’s no.”

“I won’t take no for an answer.”

“Well, too bad, because that’s what you’re getting.”

Peggy cannot believe it. She cannot believe him. It’s a perfect plan. It is a perfect plan and he’s saying no.

“Is it because you think I can’t deal with it? Or because-” She starts, she still doesn’t trust him.

He stops her. “Jesus, Carter, it’s not always about a battle of the sexes, alright? An op like this needs planning and backup. Frankly, right now, we just can’t cut back on manpower from the other cases for this.” He tells her.

He stops talking for a minute and she grabs her opportunity. “I don’t need backup. I can deal with things quite well on my own. You know that as well as I do.”

“Look, it’s standard to have at least three people back up on an op like this.” He says, sighing. “It’s not a measure of your abilities, alright, it’s standard.”

She _cannot_ believe him. She wants to write down why she thinks he’s an idiot and then shove it down his throat. She also wants him to decide whether he’s going to be an arsehole or a nice guy. The whole mood flip is much more harder discerning then she’d hoped. Also, is he _seriously_ saying no to her plans of catching Ava Jenkins by giving her the lame excuse of _red bloody tape?_

“Are you really giving your justification for rebuffing my ideas as paperwork?” She asks. She can’t help it. It’s bloody maddening. He’s maddening.

He sighs. He sighs in the way that makes her feel like she’s a little kid and he’s too tired to deal with her. He sighs in a way that makes her want to rip his hair out and possibly do something else. But mainly rip his hair out.

He sighs and says, “Somebody needs to do it. That somebody is me.”

She bloody well cannot bloody well believe him. She might slap him out of sheer disbelief at what an idiot he can be. It surprises her. She does not know what to do with him.

She cannot figure him out. Two days ago, she’d wanted him to kiss her – God knows he’d wanted it – and now she wants to _rip his hair out._  

“Jack, this might be the only chance we will have to get our hands on a suspect from leviathan. The only chance. You know how good they are at disappearing, you know that if I don’t intercede Ava at the rendezvous point, we will lose her.” She tells him. She means it. “She’ll be another murderer roaming the globe and only because you couldn’t spare a few agents.”

She knows she’s won. He still sighs, but it’s speaks of the way he knows she’s right.

“Fine. But, you’re taking back up. As many volunteers Sousa can round up.” He tells her.

She can’t help scoffing. “I sincerely doubt you’ll have an abundance.”

She’s wrong. Daniel manages to round up six.

…

Ava Jenkins is on the floor with Peggy’s foot on her throat. It’s horribly satisfying to watch after said woman kicked her in the face only ten minutes ago.

“Agent Jones? I think you can manage her now.” She says and then she’s overcome by blinding pain in her chest.

Her foot slips off, everything’s dizzy. It’s surprising, she thinks, that she’d forget what it felt like to get shot. Her vision is going black and the last thing she remembers is the sharp smile on Ava’s face.

…

The swim towards consciousness bizarrely reminds her of swimming in a pool in her teens. The walls are white. The sheets are white. Even the furniture is all white. She blinks.

When she tries to focus on Sousa’s face, her vision’s white. Everything is too white. It’s giving her a headache. Although, that’s probably because she had a bullet wound for brunch. Maybe she should sleep. It seems a very attractive option right about now.

She closes her eyes. Sinks deeper. _Sunlight on yellow_ stone, she thinks, _watery light filtering through red glass,_ and, _white beams cutting angles on a green willow tree._

“Peggy?”

Damn. Her plans for a siesta are cut short. Daniel’s worry manages to climb up her spine and makes her open her eyes.

“Hello, Daniel.” She says. The pain in her abdomen is slowly increasing, along with her consciousness. The lights are seemingly dimmer from her last seeing escapade.

“God, Peggy. You had us worried to death.” He tells her. “They lost you there once.”

She blinks again. She can’t remember any details of what exactly happened. She pushes her focus onto Daniel. He looks, well, rumpled to be exact. There’s another word she wants to use but she can’t bother to search for it. He looks like he hasn’t changed in two days and as if he’s slept on a chair.

“Now, now.” She says, and feels uncomfortable. Why exactly did she say that?

According to Daniel’s face, he also finds this uncomforting.

She coughs, or rather, tries to. The pain stops her from trying again. “What - What happened?”

“Ava Jenkins wasn’t the only one there. You had her down and a little girl named Claire shot you. Johnson and Tripp found two others, Valerie and another unnamed girl. Ava took the chance to leave as soon as you went down. Took Valerie with her. The other one got shot by Tripp after she got Johnson.” He tells her. Daniel’s tone is hesitant, like he doesn’t want to tell her. He doesn’t, it’s the God’s honest truth, but he’s telling her anyways because he knows her well enough to know that she won’t calm down until she knows. It’s one of the reasons she likes him.

“W-What about Claire?” She asks, the bed sheet scratchy under her palm.

He makes a face. “Well, she hasn’t cracked. She’s in custody, but she hasn’t said anything. Jack’s been in there twice, not a word out of her. It’s like she’s gone away, y’know – inside.”

Peggy can’t say anything to that. Right then, the nurse walks in. She can’t help but remember those days during the war, when no nurse’s uniform was ever really white, when there were never enough beds and never enough medicine. She remembers women in white dresses soaked in blood scrubbing their hands in the sink and then rushing off to the next soldier they’d brought in.

“- he’s been worried about you. Didn’t leave for a minute. Wants to see you so-”

Wait, what? Is he talking about Jack? Peggy’s been too wrapped up in her nostalgia to remember to listen.

“Jack’s here?” Peggy can’t help the incredulous tone.

Daniel’s eyebrows flirt with his hair line. “You must have been hit on the head really hard if you think there’s any way he wouldn’t be here.”

It’s confusing. Jack could undoubtedly be doing more important stuff such as, oh she doesn’t know, maybe finding Ava?

“I’ll send him in,” Daniel says, pats her head and walks out.

The nurse pushes the injection into the tube connected to the fluid bag, the one hanging from the hook on the pole near her bed. Then she scribbles something on her clipboard and chews her pen. She catches Peggy’s eye and gives her a smile that does not have any right to be called a smile. She leaves the room just as Jack comes in.

As confused and annoyed as she is at Jack’s apparent insistence on staying here, it all fades away when she looks at him, He looks exhausted, more than anyone has the right to be ,and worried. In fact, he looks so tired, it makes him look as if he’s three missed meals away from extinction.

_It’s actually sort of sweet,_ her mind traitorously whispers, _how worried he is about her._

The thing is, and she is sure of this, is that Jack hates caring.  He prides himself on not showing that he cares and yet, here he is, all for-

Wait just a bloody minute. Is she really bloody well _gushing_ about _Jack Thompson_ of all people? She shakes her head. Angie has been getting to her.

Thoughts like those are always teetering on the edge of a metaphorical cliff. If Peggy asks herself exactly the right question at exactly the right time, she will undoubtedly free-fall off the cliff to a place where boundaries are completely blurred and dangerous fantasies roam freely.

“How’re you feelin’. Carter? ” Jack asks. His eyes are fixed to the fascinating subject that is the color of his socks. From the light across the room and from Peggy’s vision, they seem one shade below khaki. A rare color, that, even if she did see them on sale at that one supermarket across her place.

“I’m alright,” she answers. She’s always amused as to how people always ask people who have been wounded silly questions as to how they’re feeling. If someone got shot, they probably feel like they got shot. If someone got stabbed, they most likely feel as if, you guessed it – they got stabbed.  

Concern and worry die a slow death on the pavement, while fury and rage walk hand in hand towards a golden sunset. The look in Jack’s eyes shifts to anger in a split second.

“Yeah, ‘course you are. You almost died, but that’s probably nothing.” He says, calmly. He’s too composed.

He reminds her of the still before the storm.

It’s silent for a few moments, before she speaks. “Jack, I could get Claire to talk.”

“No,” he says. He is the epitome of calm and yet his eyes flicker in a way that makes her almost wary.

“Jack, you - ”

He doesn’t bother letting her finish. “I don’t think I was clear enough, Carter. You’re not leaving this room for a week – _minimum._ ”

She cannot bloody believe him.

“You can’t do that,” she says.  

He seems to find it amusing. The corner of his mouth curls up, not even close to a smile. It’s too bitter, too condescending to ever be called a smile.

“I can,” he says, “and I will. And if you don’t agree to stay on the terms of medical leave, I will suspend you from service for two weeks.”

She’s too angry to breathe. She wants to slap him across the face so hard that it leaves a large, ugly print there – but she has a feeling that it won’t be particularly agreeable with her wounds. It would be like flirting with death after almost going all the way.

“You aren’t going to do anything like that ever again, you understand? What was the whole point of takin’ backup, if you were going to separate first thing? You’re not going to do it again.” He says. It sounds like a promise. “I won’t let you.”

And just like that, she can see it. Jack’s angry – he’s angry at Leviathan, he’s angry at all the agents and he’s angry at her – but most of all he’s angry at himself. He’s feeling guilty. Somewhere in his stupid mind, Jack Thompson has convinced himself that what’s happened to her, is his responsibility.

“Understood?” He says is with steel, she can hear it ring in the room.

   She doesn’t answer. Lifts her hand up and alls him closer. He looks like he doesn’t want to, but he does.

“Jack, this is not because of you. It is not your fault,” she says quietly.

Something shifts.

“Of course it’s my fault!” he yells. He wallows, composes himself and speaks again, softer this time.

“I let you go. I let you go on an op like this without any planning, without proper backup and look what happened.” His voice feels like she’s walking barefoot on broken glass. “You almost died, Peggy. You almost _died._ And it’s on me.”

She can’t do anything but put her hand out even though the drugs are taking effect. Her arm feels like a piece of lead, but she manages. He takes her hand in his own and sits down at the side of her bed. She squeezes his hand in hers, though she can barely feel it herself.  

This is no man’s land, where no boundaries exist and nothing is inappropriate.

“It’s not your fault, Jack. I’m alright. I’ll get well. We’ll save the world. I’ll feed you tea and make you take me out dancing.” She smiles at his sharp intake of breath, at the honest curve of his mouth like he just can’t help it, hears his laugh like music in her ears.

Her eyelids are heavy and she closes her eyes.

Smiles and says, “Everything is going to be alright.”

Just before she falls under, she feels the press of someone’s lips against her hand, feels the curve of it pressing soft against her skin.

Maybe it’s Jack, she thinks, and then laughs as loudly as she can in her own mind.

Isn’t that a funny thought?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **note** hola. been almost a month since i last updated this. but finally. i will warn all of you, my finals are in two weeks, so this is definitely the last update for some time. enjoy.
> 
> **note 2** i'd like to officially thank the auto save of MS word because i lost half of this draft when me computer shut off and the only reason i bothered to finish it was because i didn't have to write it all again.
> 
> **note 3** thank you all the lovely people who commented and left kudos - you are all saints. i hope you find money on the streets. thank you to all the people who simply read this and liked it, because that's enough for me too. And as always - I'd like to thank you, my dear reader, always you. **i'd be absolutely delighted if you left me a little comment telling me how you felt about this chapter.** God bless.


	3. free to drink martinis and watch the sun rise

Three days later, Jack is almost glad to be back in his office. He can hide here with the lovely view amidst the priceless bottles of alcohol. That way he can avoid Peggy and maybe that will help keep those irritating _feelings_ from saturating the air and making him choke on them. He feels extremely confused, tired and just a little bit unmanly.

The thing is, nothing has happened in the last three days that hasn’t happened before. It was Peggy’s hospital room. He sat there on a chair near her bed and talked to her for a while, then left. He flirted with the pretty brunette nurse named Katherine, the way he’d been doing for the previous week.

But on the third day, it all went wrong. He’d been chatting with the receptionist when lovely little Katherine and shown up and told him that there was just a little time left to visit his ‘girlfriend’ who was probably missing him.

Stumped did not even begin to cover it.

Was he really that obvious? He hadn’t been lavishing her with gifts as far he could see, hadn’t even brought flowers. All he did was show up, _everyday,_ share a few laughs – and he’d kissed her hand once – but he blames that on the crippling sense o relief that she wasn’t dead.

Was it a woman thing? His Ma always said that women always knew, they could always tell. If lovely little Katherine cold tell, could Peggy? Dear Lord.

That’s what he’d been thinking, with his eyes wide and his mouth open.

“Jack, are you okay?” Katherine had asked.

Jack had smiled, nodded, chucked the piece of information to the back of his mind like the unwanted thing it was and reassured her that indeed, everything was A-Okay.     

In the hospital room, he’d been more conscious about being close to Peggy then he’d ever been. He made sure the chair was a good four feet away from the bed. And then he’d noticed how much he’d started touching her. Not enough to be suspicious, but just enough to figure out. He’d simply been brushing a lock of hair off her face, or covering her hand with his while laughing. Peggy had been telling him about the newest gossip, the new intern was dating the head surgeon who just might or might not be married.

“Sweet girl,” Peggy had said. “I did however, have to listen to her describe him in bed to Marie in excruciating detail.”

“Marie?” he’d prompted.

Peggy had smiled and said, “Claire’s best friend and roommate. She’s actually from an upper class background, but her parents disowned her when she said she’d rather be a doctor than a wife.”

Jack couldn’t have helped but smile. “You know this from one conversation?”

“No,” Peggy had replied. He could hear the laughter in her voice. “I know this from the countless conversations they have had in this very room when they thought I was sleeping.”

“You minx,” he’d said, and then laughed with her. It had bubbled out of him, free and unfettered.  

She’d squeezed his hand through the laughter, and he couldn’t help but think, _I love you._

Those words had been at the tip of his tongue and he’d swallowed them down. He’d walked home yesterday, even though it was raining, and he’d thought about it. And then he’d ended up in the first bar he could find and sat there for an hour drinking, before he’d gotten himself home and spent another hour drinking.

And now, here he was in the present, hiding behind the door.

_I fell in love with Peggy Carter,_ he thinks. _I couldn’t not._

 Jack takes his mind off the whole ‘unrequited love’ thing by pouring himself a glass. The liquor is auburn, brown and golden, through and through. It reminds him of Peggy. Come to think of it, lots of things remind him of Peggy.

He sees her whenever he hears children laughing, feels her whenever he looks at the world through a sheet of rain.

The thing is, Peggy Carter will never love him back. She doesn’t even like him that much – loving him isn’t even an option on the little ticky box sheet of his life.

Jack has seen his own future. He knows it, deep in the marrow of his bones, behind the burning of his eyes. He’ll find a nice , pretty girl and he’ll marry her. He’ll spend two weeks being the perfect husband and then he’ll go back to his way, back to his father’s way and he’ll ignore his wife and children for the next girl he can find to escape the cages of redundancy.

Jack has seen his own future and it is everywhere other than the bottom of a bottle.

He picks up the tiny glass in his hand and the bottle in the other one.

“It’s like I’m addicted to you. I don’t wanna be, believe me, I don’t. But I am,” he makes the Jack-glass say to the Peggy-bottle. “You’re beautiful and amazing and feisty. You’re perfect. You, my love, are liquid starlight.”

The Peggy-bottle shakes, bottle equivalent of a shrug.

“I don’t love people like you. You’re just a glass, and that’s all you’ll ever be,” The Peggy-bottle says.

Jack’s high pitched, British dialogue is interrupted by Sousa opening the door. Jack’s voice thankfully cuts off ad he smashes the bottle and glass onto the table. The Peggy-bourbon splashes out a little.

Does Jack look frazzled? Jack certainly feels frazzled.

Daniel seems to have noticed. Shit. “Uh, you busy?”

“No,” Jack answers.

Daniel does not believe him. “Just came to tell you that Peggy’s back.”

Well isn’t this day just going _great._  

.

Peggy is in a good mood. The sun is shining, the birds are chirping and Claire has let it spill.

She is currently standing in the living room of one Mr. and Mrs. Jameson. The parents in question are currently hugging and kissing their daughter. Peggy has the feeling that the girl did not get much love before this.

“Oh, thank you, thank you!” Greta Jameson says. Her hand is on her daughter’s shoulder and she has a hint of Virginia in her accent.  “She just disappeared, we didn’t know who to call- what to do – the school said her teacher was gone too and we just- we just- oh!”

Her husband, Andrew Jameson places a hand on his wife’s shoulder. Peggy approves. Greta looks as if she will break into tears any moment now. Andrew takes her in his arms and Claire is pulled along due to her mother’s death grip on her shoulder.

Peggy is rethinking her decision of staying here and sending Jack to deal with Claire’s younger sister.

“Excuse me,” Peggy says, “I need to find my partner.”

She finds Jack in the room upstairs. He is sitting on the ground with a tiny little girl in his lap. She has blonde hair that shares a striking resemblance to Jack’s. Almost enough to be suspicious. Peggy tries to place a name from the brief mention of her in the conversation. Emma, Melanie, Susan, Carrie, oh there it is – Jennifer.

Like all other women and for reasons beyond fathom, Jennifer is also charmed by Jack. She is currently rubbing her palms on his cheeks.

Jessica’s eyes suddenly flick to her. “Who’s the pretty lady at the door?”

Jack smiles when he looks at her. “That’s Peggy. And she’s not prettier than you.”

“I like her hair,” Jessica says. Peggy smiles, bright. It’s sad to think that if Jessica was a mere four years older, she would be with her sister.  

“I like your hair,” Jack tells her. He’s curled a blonde lock around his finger and is giving it a tug.

Jessica makes a face. “You just like my hair,” she tells him with her hand clenched firmly in his hair and pulling, “because they’re like yours.”

“Guilty,” Jack says. There’s a soft glint in his eye that is making Peggy feel very uncomfortable.

Jessica laughs and so does Jack and Peggy has the strangest urge to haul him by his lapels and kiss him.

_I could love this man,_ Peggy thinks and stops. Mentally shuts herself down like one of Howard’s inventions. She takes the words and shoots them thrice and then hides the bodies inside the imaginary shed in her mind.

_This is Jack Thompson, misogynistic bastard,_ she tells herself. _This is the man who is too much of a coward to ever accept that a woman can be better than him._

It helps, but only a little. Jack’s eyes are fixated at Jessica as she tells him about the day her sister disappeared. Jack is nodding, mumbling sympathies at the right occasion.

Oh, dear. Peggy is being overcome with the awful urge to fuck his bloody brains out.

She tries being logical. Thinks, _it’s just that stupid thing Angie was talking about._

Why something unusually insane happens to a woman looking at a man taking care of a child, she will never know.

She turns on her heels and walks out, cheeks tinged red.

This is just bloody _perfect._

She rather preferred it when she could classify Jack into either black or white. Jack is grey. Jack is the most confusing, volatile, _grey_ person she has ever met. Some days she likes him and others she hates him. When the hell did that happen and why was Peggy not informed about this advancement?

If someone had asked her what she thought of Jack Thompson a mere month ago, she would have said, “Over-confident Prick.” And been done with it. Now, she’s still say ‘over confident prick’, but that wouldn’t be it.

And why was Jack so good with children? Over-confident pricks should not have the quality to be good fathers. It was not fair.

Another thing that was not fair: Angie’s insistence that Peggy take a date to watch a performance, while thoroughly ignoring Peggy’s pointed arguments about how she was busy saving the world to worry about petty matters such as ‘dating’.

She’d asked Jarvis, who’d totally ditched her for his wife’s home-cooked goulash. There was Daniel, but he’d been going on about this game he was going to watch that was happening today. That left Jack, and Peggy was most certainly not going to ask him.           

On the ride back to the SSR, jack tells her everything she needs to know. Claire Jameson disappeared along with her primary school teacher, Ms. Jackie Anderson. Before that, she came home and apologized to her little sister. Claire’s parents, upon finding out, were horrified. Jessica hadn’t understood a thing, just that her sister was gone.

“I’ve got the address of the school. We should go check it out,” Jack says. “Or I could just send Barry the builder.”

Peggy grimaces at the stale smell of smoke in the car. Remembers Barry the builder as this giant man with the instincts of a bunny rabbit. 

“What’s that face for?” Jack asks.

Peggy frowns, yet again. “That’s the face for the terrible smell of smoke in your car. And in your office. And in your clothes - ”

Suddenly it clicks in. He doesn’t smell of smoke anymore. The smell of smoke in his car is old, and the office has always smelt of smoke. No cigarette on Friday. None before that either.

“Yep. Not a single smoke in two weeks,” Jack says. “Well don’t look so shocked.”

She schools her face. “And what brought about this miraculous transformation?”

Jack shrugs. “You said you wanted me to stop. I did.”

Peggy does not know what to say. When did this happen? Oh yes, that one day in the hospital three weeks ago when she’d been going to sleep and mumbled it out. That seems pathetic now.

But the fact that Jack stopped – no. She’s not that stupid. Jack wouldn’t stop smoking for her. He probably looked into a mirror, saw a wrinkle and went into hysterics. Or maybe he almost choked on his food at some restaurant and realized his weakening lung power.

But just hearing him say it, say that he stopped because she wanted him to makes him revisit those words she shot to death a mere half-hour ago.

No, no. No, no , no, no, no. There shall be no more of that. Peggy is adamant over this fact.

“Alright,” she says. “Are you busy tonight?”

Jack arches a brow. “Not particularly.”

Peggy supposes he has the same plans of staying late and finishing up work, similar as hers.

“Oh,” she says, _alright._ But instead it comes out as: “In that case, would you like to accompany me to my friend’s play?”

Jack grins, amused. “You asking me out on a date, Carter?”

Peggy scoffs. “In your dreams. I was merely extending an offer to accompany me to see the performance of an extremely talented woman who is coincidentally my friend.”

Jack blinks, and smiles again, sympathetic this time. “Angie’s forcing you to bring a guy, that’s it right?”

Why does he remember her roommate-cum-best friend’s name? Has he been paying attention to what she’s saying outside the office? Does Jack even do that? Well, he does, but does he do it with her?

“Yes,” Peggy says. “She says I’ll benefit from the new company.”

“I’m pretty sure I don’t fulfill the ‘new’ requirement,” Jack tells her. He’s got his eyes on the road and looks three minutes away from speeding.

Peggy waves his sentence away like she would a fly. “Inconsequential.”

Jack’s mouth tilts up at the corners. “A’ right. I’ll come with. Pick you up at eight. ”

.

When she gets home, Peggy showers and picks out a dress. She was thinking of something along the lines of anything worthy of being worn that she can find in her closet.  She finally settles on a red dress that she feels is appropriate. It skims down her hips and she likes the sleeves made of net that run down her shoulders to her wrists. She pairs is with practical, black heels that always manage to look classy and can save her life if she has to run. Leaves her hair down, has a cup of that terrible, fake tea that Angie was conned into buying and starts putting on her makeup.

Jack has been admitted in downstairs and is currently yelling, “If we’re late it’s your fault.” And “Carter, it’s been an hour” at regular intervals.

Peggy rolls  her eyes as she puts on her earrings.

“Did I ever tell you,” she yells back, “that exaggeration isn’t an attractive quality?”

“Being monstrously slow isn’t one either,” Jack yells. Peggy ignores him, along with the unwanted curve of her lips.

“Don’t worry! I still like you.” Jack says.

Peggy sighs and shakes her head.

“You’re sighing, aren’t you?” His voice echoes. “You’re sighing and shaking your head.”

Peggy immediately stops shaking her head. Walks down the stairs and says, “No, I most certainly am not.”

And Jack says –

Well Jack says nothing, really. He’s staring at her like he can’t believe it. If she tries to wax poetic about it, she could say he’s looking at her as if she’s the only light in a world full of darkness.

“What,“ she asks, “is there something wrong?”

Jack snaps out of his self-imposed reverie and straightens. There’s an awkward silence that Peggy feels is being used up to come up with a suitable answer.

“No, nothin’s wrong,” Jack says. It’s too slow, too practiced.         

“Well, then let’s go,” She replies. “If we’re late, it’s your fault.”      

The ride to the theater is surprisingly uneventful. Jack has himself wrapped in a bubble that screams out, “NO TALKING.” Peggy is two minutes away from bursting it just to see what happens. She stares at him, instead.

He’s wearing one of those expensive three piece suits that people wear when they’re going for business meetings. His hair is slicked back and his tie is a suitable shade of red. All in all, he looks nice. More than nice, actually – he looks handsom-

No. No, absolutely not.

Jack turns and Peggy abruptly looks away. But she knows that he saw her looking and he knows that she knows that he saw her looking.  

“What?” He drawls. “Is there something wrong?”

“No, nothing’s wrong,” she says, before realizing that she is simply repeating his earlier words.

She wants to know the feel of his mouth against her, wants to press her hands to the blades of her shoulders, wants to trace the lines on his palms with her lips.

.

Jack is a good man, somewhere deep, deep, _deep_ down. Peggy knows this. She’d like to not know it, but she does. Peggy actually knows a lot of things about Jack that she shouldn’t want to.

Like right now, she has become the owner of the fact that Jack Thompson has a running commentary throughout shows.

“I really think they could’ve done it better,” he’s saying. “I mean, don’t take get me wrong, it’s great now, I just think they should’ve put in dance routine 5, ya’know, the one with the pink frilly frocks, over here and this one – hey that girl just tripped a little and that one in the corner who sorta looks like that singer, she’s just flappin’ her hands around at this point - ”

Peggy stomps on his foot. “I am never taking you anywhere ever again.” Out of the corner of her eye, she can see the performers bowing and the people from the front row standing up.

Jack has armed himself with his best wounded look. “I didn’t want to come anyways! You’re the one who basically dragged me out - ”

“Oh, I dragged you out? Really?” Peggy asks, bemused.

“Y’did and y’know it, darling,” Jack tells her and gives her his best smile.

She wants to punch him and kiss him in equal measures.

“Why I put up with you, I will never know,” she tells him. People are walking out and she and jack are rooted to their seats.

“You know you love me,” Jack says.

Peggy scoffs. Scoffing seems like an understatement to the reaction _that_ deserves.

“Ha. Ha,” she says, very slowly. “How long have you been that delusional?”

They’re staring at each other. It’s actually fun, and dare she say it – enjoyable. She’d never have compiled ‘Jack’ and ‘enjoyable’ in one sentence before.

“You two are the most darling couple I’ve seen.” The new voice makes them turn in front. There’s an old woman standing in front of them, with her hand locked through an old man’s. Her voice is laced with a slight french accent. “You two reminded me of mine and Pierre’s youth.”

“What?” Jack asks, laughing. His voice is a curtain behind with hysteria lies in wait.

“Are you two married?” The woman asks. “Oh, forgive me. I forget that young people nowadays do not feel bound to get married early nowadays.”

“Excuse my wife,” Pierre says. His accent is far more pronounced. “But she is right, we can hear the love you have for each other in your voices.”

Jack laughs. “Well, what can I say?”

His hand is suddenly covering hers. Peggy stomps on his foot, hard. As much as he tries to control it, a wince escapes him. The old woman looks down and notices and her cheeks have a red tinge to them.

The woman laughs. “Oh, carry on, you two,” she says. “Lovely to meet you two, by the way.”

She winks and proceeds to pull her husband away.

To say it is awkward is an understatement, possibly of the century.

And then, jack starts laughing. Laughing loudly, and freely, that honest-to-God laughter that you can’t stop, the one that makes your vision go black, the kind that is so contagious that it makes the people close to it laugh.

So Peggy laughs too, loud and free. People are staring at them, and she doesn’t care.

She is bent over and Jack has his head thrown back and they are laughing, and she can’t breathe. It makes her want to kiss him and see how long they can both go without air.

“Only the goddamn french would consider violence as an act of love,” Jack tells her when they’ve caught they’re breath. He laughs again, before groaning. “No more. Christ, no more.”

Peggy snorts. “I think they saw it as an act of foreplay.”

Jack laughs again. Peggy rather likes him when he’s like this. She enjoys moments like these. The mask drops away and she is Peggy and he is Jack and their past does not matter.

 It is the feeling you get when you are running and you are so close to the finish line, you can almost taste it.  It is the feeling the inhabitants of the desert have, when it unexpectedly starts raining. It is the feeling that overtakes you, the one that makes you scream your throat raw as you stand on top of a mountain. It is the sensation of dancing barefoot upon wet sand, with your hair open and no makeup, in the arms of your dearest.

Or more importantly, falling in love.   

        

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **note** holla again. *makes air guns* how ya all doin'? okay, no beta. special thanks to Sim for fangirling with me over this ship.   
> **note 1** i hope you all like it. i tried my best to keep the 'flow' going and i hope it paid off. this is very rapidly becoming one of the favorite things i've written. i hope it's one of yours too. also i have like one paper left and after that i'm sorta **free**   
> **note 2** thank you to all the people who read this, to the people who left kudos and those who commented. you people give me the strength to go on during those terrible days where i don't want to. i'd love to know what you guys thought. let em at me.


	4. im searching for the sky i lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "But yeah, I’m in love and it’s terrible. What about you?”
> 
> The woman offers him a smile, one that says that she’s heard a thousand stories from thousands of men like him before, nothing special here, boys and that she’ll hear a thousand more by tomorrow. It’s a nice smile, hidden away by fake lipstick. Jack notices that she has dimples. 
> 
> “Love that takes you to bed, yeah,” she says. “Love that takes your breath away – no.”
> 
> “Good for you, because as far as I know, love is overrated,”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the chapter title is a translation from the Japanese song 'Again' by Yui, used as the opening for Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood.

Jack hasn’t slept at all. It’s been two days and he can’t sleep. There is a dancer in front of him spreading her legs and Jack is close to passing out.

“You ever been in love?” The girl asks. She has blonde hair that is obviously dyed. She’s got hollow cheeks that speak of starvation hidden behind a smile as fake as her hair color.

Jack blinks. “Not really. Not before now. But yeah, I’m in love and it’s terrible. What about you?”

The woman offers him a smile, one that says that she’s heard a thousand stories from thousands of men like him before, nothing special here, boys and that she’ll hear a thousand more by tomorrow.  It’s a nice smile, hidden away by fake lipstick. Jack notices that she has dimples.

“Love that takes you to bed, yeah,” she says. “Love that takes your breath away – no.”

“Good for you, because as far as I know, love is overrated,” Jack tells her. He can taste the cheap tequila at the back of his throat whenever he speaks.

“So’s heaven,” she says, “but people still want it. Human psychology or some crap like that.”

 Jack smiles. “What’s your name?”

The woman raises an eyebrow, gives a tentative smile. Her lips are full, made for pink and purple – not red, and hell, when did that become a requirement?

“Clara,” she tells him. “You?”

“Jack,” he answers. “What’s your story?”

“What are you, a bartender?” she asks, twirling around the pole. “Why should I tell a random stranger that?”

Jack shrugs. “Better than most requests you get around here, I’ll bet.”

She seems to chew on it. From Jack’s view he can see that her hair roots are growing out. They’re black.

“Mama was a housewife, daddy was a farmer. Shared one, actually, with another man,” she starts. There’s a glint in her eyes that Jack almost misses as he stares at her breasts. She seems, for a moment, as if she has an entire story to tell, but she blinks and it’s gone. He can see her lock it down, throw the key away. “When Daddy died, Ma followed and I- well, I came here to be a big city girl.”

“And how’s it been?” he asks.

Clara scoffs, rolls her eyes. She looks like she wants a cigarette. So does Jack, but he’s stopped.

“Overrated,” she says, finally and laughs. Jack laughs along with her. There’s an edge to both of their voices, a clean stitching of hysteria.

“When does your shift end?” Jack asks.

Clara scoffs. “I don’t have a lot of morals I stick by, hon, but this one does: I don’t fall in love with men who’re married and I don’t fuck guys who are in love with someone else.”

“I’m not asking for that,” jack says. “I’m not. Have a drink with me, that’s all I’m asking.”

“And I’m supposed to believe you aint got no ulterior motives?” she smirks, as if she doesn’t really care if he does.

Jack smirks back. “You don’t fuck guys in love because you don’t want to look at them while they think of someone else in your place. Well the sad truth is, we guys in love don’t want you there anyways. I’m not into replacements. Whether I’m being replaced or replacing someone.”

Clara considers. “My shift ends in thirty minutes. Now, unless you’ve got the money for another dance, I’ll meet you outside in the parking lot.”

Thirty minutes later he meets her in parking. She’s leaning against some car, paint peeling off the side wall and street light shining down, flickering in misery. He doesn’t say anything, just offers her his arm.

Surprising him, she takes it. It’s shocking to think that just a year ago he’d have considered her eye candy. Nothing more than a pair of tits and never-ending legs put down on God’s green Earth for men’s amusement. All that a woman’s good for. Except, except ever since he’s met Carter, she’s changed his outlook on the world.

He looks at a woman and he sees a human being, blood and soul, human being. With feelings and aspirations and hopes and dreams and anger, just like the rest of them.

He’d hate Peggy for it – if he didn’t hate himself for going about blind for so long.

They find the shittiest bar close enough for walking distance. She heads over to the bar, hops on a stool, no waiting, no sir.  Or maybe just not for him.

He sits beside her. Orders a scotch.

So does she.

And they drink.

A few drinks later they’re lounging against the bar, and Clara pokes him in the forehead.

“I loved a guy once,” she starts. “Isn’t that how it always starts? Boy meets Girl, they fall in love.”

“What happened?” Jack asks. Surprises himself by actually waiting to hear the answer.

“He loved glory. Loved his country. And the patriotic bullshit they feed you on radio was enough for my man to drop everything and go fight for freedom,” she says, slurring just a bit. It sounds bitter, consistently so, like eating a series of small, bad almonds you’re used to eating, like a story you’ve told to yourself in bed too many times to make some sense of it. “He left blood and flesh. All that came back of him was his watch. Blown to pieces.”

They drink more, and Jack finds himself admitting something he won’t admit to the closest of friends.

“I got saved by Captain America once,” he says. “And then I went and fell in love with his girl.”

“Tough,” Clara says. “At least she didn’t get blown to bits.”

And for some reason, that makes Jack laugh. And Clara laughs with him – two bitter, estranged souls hopelessly drinking their troubles away, knowing it won’t make a difference, in a dark lit bar and cheap alcohol, and cynical hearts hardened by their very own love.

X

Clara and Jack’s friendship grows like a cactus. They don’t ever really plan to meet, merely show up places they know the other is. Clara lives in a small apartment in the second shittiest corner of New York, shares it with another dancer called Madeline, who works part time as a bartender and calls Jack ‘chief dick’.

  He never thought it would go like this, actually being friends with someone, someone who was a woman. But Peggy’s changed the way he looks at the world, at people, at women and he finds himself glad for Clara’s company.

Clara drinks with him, and fights with him and hooks him up with a different girl each night of a week.

“Will having sex actually help?” He asks her.

Clara scoffs. “Better than nothing, I’d say.”

And he finds that acceptable, because whatever anyone might say, having something is always better than having nothing.

“Come with me to the New Year’s party,” He asks Clara. Stark’s paying, along with the SSR. It’s going to be better than the usual shit they have, with old bottles of brandy and dancing when the chief goes home. Jack actually used to like those parties, but now he’s chief, he’s the guy they wait for to go home.

“No,” Clara says. She reading some book on some guy in the eighteenth century.

“Come on, why not,” Jack says. “Free booze, free food.”

“Nope,” Clara says, barely looking up.  

“I’ll get you the best dress and shoes a woman could ask for,” Jack says. After all, becoming chief signifies a great bump in salary and it’s not like he’s using it on anything but shoes and suits and booze. Maybe a few hats, but come on. Everybody’s got a dirty secret.

“I’m in.”

X

Clara opts for a green dress, gets her hair coiffed, and shoes whose price actually made Jack double take. She looks happy, enough so that Jack thinks it was worth it, seeing eyes that have forgotten how to shine, smile again.

_She’s like a chameleon_ , Jack thinks, watching her go around talking to big shots like she’s one of them, pursing purple painted lips. _Great at pretending to be something she isn’t. Acting as if she fits. Just like me._

It’s probably fantasy fulfillment for her, all those films she’s watched on rich women going around, life a mixture of ballrooms and parties. He’d scoff if he wasn’t dying for the same thing; one day where he’s got everything he wants.

He and Clara dance, because it’s rude to ditch a date and people here actually observe, shit bored that they are with their own lives. Master’s had told him once, _Good wife and two kids are going to take you a lot further._ It’s fun, because Clara’s a better dancer then he is, and keeps telling him, _Good form, soldier._

And then Peggy steps out of the shadows like a cat, graceful and all curves. She’s wrapped in a dark blue dress the color of the stars that one night out in September in Georgia, with his cousin Annie, nine years old and filled with more hope than he knew was possible.

_She came here with Sousa,_ he thinks, _sucks to be her._

Because Sousa can’t dance anymore, _couldn’t dance ever,_ Sousa had told him once back in a  bar in west end, _couldn’t dance to save my life before the leg thing and now-_

Well now, he’s just probably bumbling around like the idiot he pretends to be, wants to be.

Jack feels a spark somewhere deep down, because he’s had Sousa with him as his sorta-maybe plus one at a questionable bar in downtown New York and after the initial denial of anything attractive about another man, he can admit that Sousa makes a shitty date for anything and anyone, regardless of gender. If he likes someone, he starts bumbling, trying to act like nothing’s up in such an obnoxious way that everyone knows that something’s up.

_And Sousa definitely likes Peggy,_ Jack thinks and then snorts, because for all his faults he doesn’t spill his beans in front of the girl he likes – _no, you just kill anything that reminds you of her._

He blinks.

“Can I cut in? I need to talk to you,” Peggy says. Just like that. In an honest, open way that Jack wants to master.

Clara coughs, mumbles something about the fish cakes and leaves his arms open, waiting. Peggy steps in without skipping a beat.

“Well?” she asks.

Jack scoffs, he wants out of this conversation as fast as possible.  “You’ve sort of taken my choice away, Carter.”

She bristles, and detaches for a moment, but it’s obvious that the conversation she wants to have is more important, and so they join the waltz again.

“Why did you stop being my friend?” She asks him, no hesitation, just a clear-cut question asking for a clear-cut answer.

“I didn’t stop being your friend, Peggy. I don’t think we were actually ever friends, even. More like very close acquaintances,” Jack struggles to find words. “-who are having a few ups and downs. This is a down.”

Peggy does not even blink. There is a small flicker of something in her eyes that Jack can’t recognize but it’s replaced by disbelief.

“And Queen Elizabeth died last evening, sure,” Peggy says. Sarcasm from her mouth sounds like the crack of a slap. “Is it because of Clara? Does she think I’m going to steal you from her?”

Jack almost laughs. The truth is so far away from that it’s like a sailing ship on the horizon. Clara wouldn’t want him because she already knows he’s gone. But what he says is, “No, she doesn’t. But you know how women get uncomfortable when men are with other women. Even if they’re not involved in any way. At all.”

“Oh,” Peggy says.

What can you say to that?

“Yeah,” Jack says.

“Is it serious?” Peggy asks, all casual. “Really serious?"

Jack swallows. Clara is going to kill him if she finds out about this. “A bit. She’s a good girl. Nice. Funny.” _Won’t break my heart._

“Good, good. I’m glad you’ve found someone. You’re certainly not getting any younger,” Peggy says with the hint of a red lipped smile.

Jack snorts, pokes her in the forehead. “Speak for yourself. Is that a wrinkle?”

Peggy slaps his hand away, half-hearted glaring.

He can’t help it but he wants this. He wants all of it. He wants the fighting, the anger, the yelling – he wants the smiles he has to work so hard for, the way her eyes go wide when he says something that makes her laugh, he wants long night stakeouts and the stupidest things in the world with Peggy – her in his crisp cotton shirts and nothing else, him in her bed on cold days when rain is pelting every surface, he wants them coming home together, wants to make her Italian, prove that he can cook, take her on dates and kiss her, not the rushed, desperate kissing, but kiss her short and sweet, the way you do when you know you can have one like that anytime you want.

And he knows that she is better than him and she deserves better than him. Always has, always will. He knows it, she knows it, everyone does. He knows that they won’t ever work out because he won’t let them, he won’t let them begin , he’ll be smart and pragmatic, the way he’s always been. He’ll cut his losses and live without her, he knows he can. He’s always been good at survival, for fighting with his life in a cause he no longer believes in, one that no longer exists. He’ll do it because he loves her, in his own bullshit, fucked up way, he loves her, ther best of her and the worst of her, but more than that – he loves himself. He has never been self-less, never been sacrificial , always been pragmatic, always been smart, self-serving.

Jack loves her and he loves himself and so he will do them both a favor and never act on his desires. He always took his lessons seriously and Pandora was one he never took lightly.

He snaps. The whole introspective house of mirrors comes crashing down, the fall of a regime in mere moments.

“Hmm?” he asks. Peggy looks annoyed at having to repeat herself.

“Are we alright?” she asks.

Jack doesn’t know what to say. Well, that’s a lie. He wants to tell her that he can never be alright, he can never go back to not caring. I’m in love with you, he wants to tell her Somewhere between the bullets and the stakeouts and the espionage, I’ve fallen in love with you and now I don’t know what to do. Falling in love with you is not some challenge I can overcome, it’s terrifying. Falling in love with you is terrifying because I did it the way I have never done anything in my life – without a plan, without a clue, and desperately wanting more.

But all he says, “Yes, Marge. We’re fine.” She glares at him for it, but her lips twitch up all the same. “Always have been.”

She hakes her head, resignation intricately roped into an expression he doesn’t have the patience of unraveling. It doesn’t feel like victory when the music ends and she leaves his arms, just defeat in another way. Clara comes over, replaces the red warmth with her own. Shoves a small piece of sandwich in his mouth before he can say anything.

“it’s lobster, not poison, just chew,” she tells him. It’s a livelier dance and she won’t let him sit down and have a drink.

“Wanna head out?” she asks.

And he think about how all he wants, all he’s wanted for a very long time is home, a place he hasn’t been able to find all his life, a place, a feeling, a person. And he thinks of how his shitty apartment is sitting at home is waiting with a bottle of bourbon. But he has a reputation to maintain, and he wants to see Clara smile with her bubblegum lipstick- he’s got a feeling he’s been a terrible date so far.

They may never be in love with each other, but Jack has a feeling he’s not alone in his misery for once. And he won’t put the responsibility of pulling him out of his own problems on anyone, not on her, not on Peggy. He’s his own responsibility.

So he spins her around and she smiles and he swallows ash like lobster.

Jack spins Clara round, holds onto the woman in his arms and desperately tries to abandon the urge to imagine the one he loves in her place.

Instead, he drags Clara to the bar and  drinks with her until she rolls her eyes and leaves him there, content in dancing with men who belong to other women in shoes she wouldn’t normally be able to look at.

“They say the last few moments of the previous year set the tone for the next year,” Clara says, by way of explanation. “I’m going to see if there’s a rich guy I can make out with.”

“Stark’s probably got space for another girl,” jack tells her. He’s quite happy with his gin- vodka- whatever the fuck he’s drinking right now. And just when he’s done thinking about how pathetic he is to be sitting here alone among hundreds of people, his eyes catch on star blue, the flowing fabric of a woman’s dress in the light breeze; Carter standing in the balcony, alone.

There’s a feeling in the air like it’s almost midnight, almost New Year, and for all his talk, he decides that for all his talk he doesn’t want to spend his first minutes into New Years alone.

“You wishing he was here?” Jack asks, doesn’t have to explain what he’s talking about.

“Against my sanity, my common sense and my well-wishes to him, yes,” Peggy says. “I miss him.”

How simple to say that. _I miss him._ Nobody to understand the depth of that sentence.

Jack s blank, doesn’t know what to say. What do you say to something like that? What do you say to the person you love when you can’t say _I love you?_ What do you say to the person you love who loves someone else?

“You ever think you can move on from him?” Jack asks, knowing and dreading the answer. How can she? How can he expect her to move on from a man as great as Captain America himself?

But Peggy surprises him. As always.

Laughs, short and sweet, tangy aftertaste, like honey at the back of your throat, and says, “Of course I can. I know I can. It’s practical moving on,” Laughs again. “This isn’t one of those Hollywood films, where I live with his memory as companionship. He wouldn’t want to. I don’t want to.”

“You astound me, Peggy Carter,” jack says, more to the gardens then to her and Peggy –

  Peggy smiles. So bright and golden and gorgeous, beaming, transformed and Jack’s want to kiss her is a near physical thing.

“Is that an actual compliment?” Peggy asks.

And Jack, instead of replying, smiles at her, large and free, the way he used to, before, as a child, in innocence and happiness, in the simplest ways doing the simplest things. It’s an understanding, a friendship, it’s a something.

And behind them he hears the countdown start till the New Year’s comes around and thinks, _this is perfect. This would be perfect throughout the next year. And the one after that. And the one after that until there are no more years left._

And although he’s quite satisfied with this friendship he’s found with Carter, he places his hand on top of hers on the railing and a second before people yell out, Peggy leans over and presses the softest kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“Happy New Years, Thompson,” Peggy says, smiling.

Jack laughs, just a little, drunk on scotch and vodka and happiness. “Happy New Year’s, Carter.”

And although it’s supposed to be a mutual, amenable ending of whatever this was between them – Jack can’t help but think it feels an awful lot like the beginning.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **note 1** so yes i know it's been like an year since i posted, but i'm finally done with some of the most major tests i've had the (displeasure) of giving, i'm back.   
> **note 2** if anyone wants to know, no, Clara is an OC introduced for my own benefit in a way of letting the story revolve around other aspects of the main characters. She is not going to be a romantic interest for Jack. This is Jack/Peggy. Nothing else.   
> **note 3** boop. i'm a little rusty from not writing for so long so leave a comment telling me what you thought.


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